


A Crack in the Stone

by badscooter



Category: Deltora Quest - Emily Rodda
Genre: hello naughty grey guards it's murder time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-29
Updated: 2019-10-29
Packaged: 2021-01-05 17:29:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21212381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/badscooter/pseuds/badscooter
Summary: A hunted man flees through a forest.





	A Crack in the Stone

The first man the nameless prisoner kills is no man at all.

He looks like a man, and when the prisoner shoves the makeshift knife between his ribs, his blood springs forth hot and red. But the way he reacts is profoundly inhuman; his expression contorts into something too defiant and unafraid, hands already moving to the blade lodged in his chest to use it against its owner. So the prisoner smashes a rock into the not-man’s skull, silencing him before his companions can be drawn to his dying cries.

Whether the man flees uphill or downhill through the forest, it matters not. Wherever he turns, his path is crisscrossed with thousands of thorny branches. They tear at him as he goes by, but he pays the wounds little heed. He would rather be cut to ribbons on these trees than be hauled back to the place from which he has fled. As long as he can still feel the lonely, painful thud of his heart, he can and must forge on.

An elated whoop rises from behind. Instinctively, the prisoner ducks. Something splatters above him and he looks up, glimpsing a steaming hole in a nearby tree. A split second later, a sickening blur of green and grey strikes the same tree, this time at head height. The man does not linger to see the damage, but he can hear the sinister hiss as the blister burns through wood.

More pursuers have taken up the hunting call now, baying for blood like hounds. Worse, beneath their dreadful chorus the man hears the sharp jangle of metal chains- like the ones that had bound him, yes, and like the ones that had restrained the...

Sudden sunlight blinds him. Reflexively he pulls back, wiping tears and blood from his eyes. As the world comes back into view, he realises that he has made it through the thicket. He takes another moment to recognise he is also teetering at the edge of a steep incline, his feet sending stones rolling down towards a broad clearing.

He jumps. Half stumbling and half falling down the scree, he lands awkwardly and sprawls into the dirt. Pain jolts through his limbs, but immediately he pulls himself upright, eyes frantically searching the edge of the clearing for cover.

Up ahead and to the right lie only more dense tangles, but on the left, shadowed by the slope he has just tumbled down, is some kind of half-collapsed tunnel. It is narrow, just wide enough for one person. Despite himself, the man feels a spark of hope. The not-men cannot sling their blisters into the tunnel from the top of the cliff; they will have to come to him, one by one. If there is a place where he can have a chance against a whole pack of enemies, it is there.

The tunnel is thirty paces away, and he makes it twenty before a blister splatters by his foot. Another whistles by his ear. Up at the top of the cliff, the hunters hoot and holler aiming instructions to their companions, but somehow he makes it to the tunnel no less whole. For a moment he wonders if he is merely being toyed with, then pushes the thought aside. Intentionally or not, they have given him a precious few seconds of reprieve.

The first of the hunting party appears, club in hand. Their eyes meet, and a triumphant grin spreads across the not-man’s face when he realises his quarry has nowhere to hide. It is but brief; the prisoner hefts a weighty rock at him, hitting him squarely in the face. He falls heavily. The prisoner is quickly on top of him, knife carving another terrible smile into the hunter’s throat.

The man darts to the side as the next assailant lunges at him with a short sword. This time he is not quite fast enough, and it slices into his side as the hunter’s momentum carries him past. With a howl, the man shoves him against the opposite wall, pinning the sword arm, but the hunter kicks out at his knee and twists free, following up with a hammering punch that snaps the man’s head hard against the cavern wall.

The prisoner does not even see the headbutt that comes next; all of a sudden he is flat on the ground, vision pulsing with pain. He tries blinking to clear it, and then the not-man is looming over him, knee crushing his chest, the other foot grinding his knife hand into the gravel. A fist clamps around his windpipe like an iron vice. It is agony to feel air and blood and life being squeezed out of him, and the man tries to pry something, anything off himself with his free hand. The hunter only sneers at his desperation, and half turns to reach for his chains.

By chance, the man’s fingers brush metal somewhere by the not-man’s belt. He catches hold of the object, and with the last fraction of his breath drives it upward through gristle and bone. His strike lands true. His foe slumps backwards with a look of surprise, tethering stake lodged deep in the underside of his jaw.

The man gasps in relief as air floods his lungs. His respite, however, is far too brief. The remaining pursuers crowd into the entrance, blades readied to smite him. He tries to get to his feet, but finds that his legs have stopped obeying him. Everything swims around him, so hazy and slow, and the knife seems far too heavy to pick up again.

The man weakly raises his hands to protect himself, but he knows it is futile. Their eyes are boring into him, the earth is shifting beneath him, and the world is roaring louder than thunder, louder than thought.

A note of uncertainty creeps into the hunters’ expressions. The next instant, darkness falls.

The nameless man stares, not comprehending. All is silent now, save for the drumming of his heartbeat. His hands, still raised, are touching a patchwork wall of rock and soil. A wall that had not existed seconds earlier, he realises slowly, dimly. Built upon the bodies of his enemies.

Eventually, the prisoner gathers enough strength to crawl, inch by torturous inch, further into the tunnel. Settling against a large, stable rock, he tries to gather his thoughts. They are every bit as battered and broken as his body, spilling onto the walls in searing crimson, but somehow the man manages to make some fleeting sense of the pieces. 

He looks up at his handiwork.

_WHO AM I? ALL IS DARKNESS, BUT I WILL NOT DESPAIR. THREE THINGS I KNOW: I KNOW THAT I AM A MAN. I KNOW WHERE I HAVE BEEN. I KNOW WHAT I MUST DO. FOR NOW, THAT IS ENOUGH._

The very last thought that flows out before the man slips into unconsciousness is not a word but an image- a single bird, flying free.


End file.
